


Not only actions have consequences

by DarkShadeless



Series: Overseer Sar [35]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Humor, Sith Culture, driving the Jedi Order to drink, family visits, my terrible sense of, one Master at a time, relationship and other problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:47:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Overseer Sar deals with the fallout of his lover’s choices.





	Not only actions have consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this one fought me a bit. I think I'm happy enough with it now.
> 
> Spoilery trigger warnings in the bottom note.

 

 

Sar barely makes it through a half hour the next morning before one of his students bursts into tears.

That’s not exactly a first, but this time he hadn’t seen it coming. At all.

Y-Nako is staring up at him with wide, wet, horrified eyes and clutching her ankle. “Am I going to die?”

… has she _slept_ through anatomy classes? And either way, “ _What?_ ”

The adolescent Zabrak sniffles. “You- you’re not yelling at me.”

He lets that sink in. Maybe Timmns is right after all. Maybe he should cut back. Just… maybe. He’s not feeling it _once_ and this is what he gets.

The rest of the class waits in breathless silence for his verdict on Y-Nako’s chances to survive another day. Ignoring that takes some effort.

“First of all, that was the stupidest stunt I have seen all week.” There’s not _quite_ a collective huff of relief. “And _secondly_ unless you’re running from a rancor a twisted ankle _will_ _not kill you_ , do you understand?”

Her lip trembles dangerously. “Are you-“

“ _I am sure._ ”

“O-okay.”

“Get your ass to a healer and have them explain to you how your legs work, for Force’s sake.”

 

They sneak a flarking Get-well-soon! card into his things before the week is out. It’s a hand-made monstrosity and no amount of glitter can hide that the little twerps couldn’t decide what to write. There’s still a glued over hint of ‘Sorry your boyfriend is traitorous scum.’

Kind of sweet.

He gives them all extra laps regardless.

 

Alright, so the whole matter might be affecting Sar more than he likes.

His quarters are too big with the empty spaces where the reminders of Theron’s presence should be. Honestly, he’s thinking about asking for reassignment. If it didn’t feel so much like admitting defeat, he would already have.

When it comes down to it though, his love life isn’t the only thing that has gone to pieces and not the most important one either.

This time it doesn’t take ages before Sar gets an answer. Considering the subject matter, he can’t say he’s surprised.

“Overseer? You have a visitor.”

 

 

\---

 

Family visits can be awkward.

Now, Sar loves his cousins as much as the next guy, meaning some more than others. This isn’t how he wanted to see Callin again, though. He looks good, in a pale-as-death kind of way. Very inquisitor-chic.

“Lord Sar.”

“Darth Vel.”

Titles and pseudo last names. What a drag. The official note kind of puts a dampener on the whole thing.

“Our House sends its regards, cousin, and a gift.”

“I’m honoured.” Sar is and he isn’t. He could have gone his whole life without being on the receiving end of this ritual. “Will we need witnesses?”

“That would be best.”

 

They claim one of the niches in the Force Enclave that their fellow Sith have snuck in for just this purpose under the guise of communal use. Sar flicks a Sabbacc card off the low table discreetly. Seriously, the least they could do is put some effort into cheating.

_Here goes. Moment of truth._

Callin, if one knows him, doesn't seem to be feeling so well. As if he’d rather be anywhere but here. Yon can sympathise.

It’s his arse on the line though, so he needs most of his pity for himself.

Carefully, his cousin reaches into his robes and retrieves a small package. He slides it across the table. The action echoes in the Force with all of his conflicted emotion, spreading ripples of quiet tension as the Sith nearby take note. At least the ones who know what’s what.

A live viper would have induced less trepidation in the overseer than the silk-wrapped offering. At least a snake you can stab.

Up and under, ceremonial knots all the way. Someone went to great care to spell out ‘you fucked up’ as directly as they could manage. For a person who learned to read the weave in children’s games that’s _very direct_.

The raw black fabric reveals a box of see-through pla-steel. It holds everything he will need to set his mistake to rights, much as it can be. A small tripod, the engraved bowl to go with it, a full set of incense. Most damning, ten ingots of solid electrum the size of a thumb.

His family knows exactly how much damage was done.

Sar unwinds the ribbon holding the box closed with fingers that don’t tremble only because he has perfected calm under fire. After a few moments of inspection the Sith holds it up to the light and squints. “Does this look like undyed white to you?” Under the blase inquiry his relative’s stately composure finally gives up the uphill battle it has been fighting.

“Show me that.” Breaking protocol, Callin grabs the thing right out of his hands as if they're still snot-nosed brats. Yon almost whines about it on habit alone. Stupid freakishly tall cousins and their stupidly long arms.

There's a pause. “… ancestors kriffing damn it. I have no idea. I don’t think so?”

Translation: he really, really hopes it’s not. Touching, but unhelpful.

“ _Chuba ne_. Oi, Xalek!” Heads turn at Sar’s shout. “You’ve got an eye, don’t you? Have a look at this crap! Is this bantha shit white?”

His sort-of-acquaintance peels himself from the discreetly not-watching crowd to take the ribbon as if he has been bestowed a holy task.  

Seconds tick by.

“Hmmm. It’s really more of an eggshell sort of beige? Not quite bleached bone.”

Slowly, Yon faceplants onto the table with a groan. “Right. Does someone in here have a damned color chart?”

 

 

\---

 

 

That’s the scene Timmns walks in on on the quest to drag his illusive co-worker out of whatever corner he has gone to stew in today. Hardened Sith warriors, about to come to blows over an interior decoration aid.

Not that Sith aren’t perfectly capable of killing each other over just about anything under the galaxy’s many suns but… seriously?

“Are you kriffing _colorblind_?”

“I’m not going to take that from someone who includes _new-age shading_ in their charts!“

“At least we go with the times you cretin! Where did you get stuck, the last millennium?”

“Shut the hell up, both of you!” Sar parts the squabbling pair all but physically. To Lord Gril’s mortal offense and Lord V’riel’s visible glee he grabs the data pad the second was waving at their opponent. Before either of them can make something of the interruption, he stomps back the way he came, where he seems to compare his prize to a piece of fabric.

Both ribbon and pad are dropped haphazardly when the his co-worker buries his face in his hands. “ _Lightly burnt cream._ What the fuck, aunt Leli. What the _fuck_.”

What exactly is going on here? Timmns is so confused.

 

 

Once Yon and the blonde Somminick is introduced to as ‘Callin’Vel, my bastard cousin’ have decided they need a drink or rather ‘an entire bar’ he still hasn’t gotten a proper explanation. The whole thing reminds the Jedi a little of one too many diplomatic missions gone sideways because he wore his sash at the wrong angle.

Sar hasn’t come up for air long enough to elaborate. The speed with which he is demolishing terrible Corellian brandy is impressing even the bar droid. It doesn’t look like he’s going to stop before he’s drunk his own bodyweight in whatever the cantina has on tap, or is willing to hand out to someone who can crush people’s throats with his mind.

“Yon? Yon. Yon!”

“ _What_?”

“What does lightly burnt cream mean?”

He regrets his curiosity immediately. With a thousand-yard-stare his friend lets his glass of hull cleaner sink. “It means Fix It. Or else. Or Very Else.” Sar does an admirable job at pronouncing the capital letters.

That’s… not exactly what Timmns would call good news. Which, seeing as they seem to be _relieved,_ begs the question, “What was the alternative, exactly?”

“White.”

“And…?”

“ _'This is your chance to regain honor in death.'_ ”

“ ** _What_**?”

“Timmns, that tea set is a damned heirloom. It’s literally fucking irreplaceable. Hey! That’s my brandy!”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tangential mention of ritual suicide as a cultural practice.


End file.
